It was odd that for some time along the road, as if to meet the lad’s inclinations, the notice of them had been unaccompanied with signs of interest; every one had seemed occupied with his neighbour, talking, or hastening on somewhere; the voices had even grown suppressed as they passed. Here they were busier still, and talking louder, in a perfect babble of sounds. It was wonderful, at least to Charles Willoughby in his private mind, how the cobblers lived—the weavers, blacksmiths, or carpenters, found time to work; how the mill-wheel had a hand to feed it, or the women to mind their matters; they were letting their pitchers run over, in fact, at the old carved fountain-spout, till there was a little brook across the street, down into some one’s door-steps, and a duck that seemed comparatively quiet began to lead her troop of ducklings that way. The French infants even, held plainly enough here and there, in full sunlight, to their slatternly feeding-places, looked dissatisfied as the throng pressed about the doorway of a cabaret, with the sign of the Golden Crown: a horse stood by it with foam-flecked sides, and his head stooped in its corn-bag; while a man in a green jacket, with a leather case slung across him by a belt, apparently a courier, gesticulated in vain from the open window; the door being blocked up by a drunk dragoon, who stood swaying slightly to and fro, yet balancing himself carefully, as he surveyed the various groups from his half-closed eyelids with extreme sternness and grave suspicion; till at length drawing himself up, to extend his hand with a summons for attention, he essayed to speak; but all at once rushed forward with furious gesture amongst the crowd, where he fell flat from the steps. The blood gushed from his features, women shrieking, men running, without a glance behind, as the landlord hurried to his aid from the tavern, followed by more dragoons, who stamped their spurred feet upon the steps, and half drew their sabres, with fierce gestures and execrations. Yet as the carriage passed on through the narrow and awkward street, however slowly, it did not attract attention from any of the party except Charles, who preserved a seemingly sullen silence; not distracted by so much as a look to his sister, when her governess said there must be something improper going on, and sloped her parasol that way, using a scented handkerchief, with evident desire that the young lady should do the same; while his mother had no more suspicion of its not being common to villages all over the world, possibly on a market-day, than a duchess. The tutor was, as usual, on before, with his little note-book, to put down the name of the place, the probable population, and apparent area of the church, according to some dim theory that had been growing on him since he crossed the Channel. As for Jackson, he merely whipped his horses, and made a slash at some dogs, with obvious inclination to curse whatever came in his way. So they